


Something that death has touched

by fairywearsbootz



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 13:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1268479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt at the <a href="http://ivoryandgold.livejournal.com/52506.html?page=2">LET'S MAKE OUT II-ficathon</a>:  <em>Captain America (comics or MCU), Steve/Bucky, nothing but the rain </em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something that death has touched

After Bucky comes back, this it how most of Steve's nights will go down: He will wake up at 3 or 4 a.m. to a room that's too quiet, to a darkness that doesn't stop at the barrier of his skin. He will lie still until the hammering of his heart has died down a bit, and while he waits he will go through every memory he's hoarded over the last weeks: The new callouses on Bucky's hands, the cut of his body, leaner than Steve remembers. The way the shadows around his eyes have deepened, their expression when he glances at Steve and doesn't think Steve will see. How he crosses his arms when someone enters the interrogation room so the metal is hidden from view.  
  
One scene after another, until the ice has receded; until he can breathe again.  
  
###  
  
In downtown Manhattan Bucky stands next to him, after their first mission has ended with rubble and overturned cars and empty bullet cases around them. Rain is pouring down into the canyon of the street, plastering their hair to their faces, trickling into the collar of Steve's uniform. Bucky's bleeding from a cut on his face, from another one on his right arm where the sleeve is ripped. The blood is welling up in a sluggish rhythm, the water washing it away almost immediately until there's nothing left but a fine line of crimson, its edges swirling away pulse by pulse by pulse, and it's almost worse than watching him fall.  
  
There are probably cameras somewhere, but in this moment Steve can't _not_ take the three steps seperating them; can't not pull Bucky in close, slippery leather and soaked-through cloth and clammy skin. He fits his hand over the wound on his arm; presses his own bruised cheek against Bucky's, strands of dark hair, long enough that Steve still hasn't gotten used to it, clinging to his forehead, to his lashes. Bucky's hands tighten where they are tangled into the fabric of Steve's uniform as he says Steve's name, and the only sensible thing to do seems to close his eyes and listen to Bucky's heart beat under the rush of the rain around them.  
  
###  
  
"Just so we're clear, it's not like I'm gonna just vanish into thin air if you stop watching me for a second," Bucky says a couple of days later, stretched out on the couch, a smirk in his voice and holes in his socks, and the egg in Steve's hands cracks as he flinches, yolk running down his fingers.  
  
"No," he says; clears his throat. "I know."  
  
He feels Bucky glancing at his back, waiting, more quiet than he has ever been before, and Steve knows he should turn around, but apparently there is some cowardice left in him after all. The TV, set almost to mute, drones on in the background while he picks eggshells out of the bowl. After a while Bucky sighs and raises the volume again.  
  
###  
  
"When do you need to head back on base?" Steve asks hours later, tries to cover the reluctance in his voice. Darkness has settled outside the windows, in the corners of the apartment. When he leans forward, Bucky's arm shimmers in the dim light of the oil lamp Steve has found in a thrift shop.  
  
"Yeah, I was thinking I'm not gonna go back tonight," Bucky says; bites his lip and Steve can barely hear his nervous laugh over the sound of his own blood. "I'm gonna try something. Don't deck me, alright?"  
  
It only takes the shortest touch of his lips against Steve's for Steve's hands to grab his shirt; to haul him in as close as possible, his arms wrapping around him hard enough to hurt. Bucky makes a sound like a cut-off laugh and digs his fingers deep into Steve's hair. His mouth is hot and tastes like the beer standing forgotten on the table, and through the sparks shortening out his brain Steve does his best to memorize the feeling of Bucky's muscles shifting against his own, the heat of his body. His lips slide down to the steady thrum of Bucky's pulse at the base of his neck. He counts its beats while Bucky murmurs into his ear, and his voice and his skin and his flesh and his metal and his blood are all here, with Steve, in this time and this place.  
  
###  
  
At 3 a.m. Steve wakes to a room that is quiet save for his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He takes a deep breath; another. Wills himself to calm down until other noises filter through. Rain, pattering against the windows. A distant siren. Another set of slow breaths next to him. His hand reaches out, feels the callouses on the tips of Bucky's fingers, and he breathes out, out, out.  
  
"Go the fuck back to sleep," Bucky murmurs; turns so his face is burrowed into the curve of Steve's shoulder.  
  
Steve tangles their fingers together, grins when Bucky snorts once and falls back asleep. Outside rain drums down on the ceiling, washes down the walls. Inside Steve counts Bucky's breaths on his skin, slow and hot and alive.


End file.
